Disposable Heroes
by AngelOfLorien
Summary: Death through the eyes of the dying. Lancelot


_Bodies fill the fields I see, hungry heroes end  
No one to play soldier now, no one to pretend  
running blind through killing fields, bred to kill them all  
Victim of what said should be  
a servant til I fall_

My body hums with the rush of the battle. Sweat trickles down my skin in little rivulets, as if fueling the blaze. Around me people are screaming. Because of excitement? Because of pain? Probably a combination of both.

Across the field, I see Guinevere. Once a lovely woman of noble character, now covered in the blood of the Saxons who dared to invade her land. She is fighting with the soldier from the lake. The one who issued the order for his archers to dispatch Dagonet.

She is tiring, I can see it in her stance. But she would never back down. She fights for her land and people. She fights this battle of her own choosing. As do I, I realize.

As do I…

I run for her, slicing the enemy as I do so. My heart pounds as she falls, but I am able to engage the Saxon before his blow is delivered. With a quick glance my way, she is off for another opponent.

The man and I fight a brutal, dirty fight that gets the blood racing. After several intense moments, his footing is gone and he is down. Now is the time to go in for the kill.

For Dagonet.

For the nameless, faceless Woads that lie haphazardly around this battlefield.

For me.

A Saxon lunges at me, but I parry his blow and retaliate. My sword strikes true, and I am sprayed with his blood. The warmth creeps over my hands, but before a second passes, I turn back to the Saxon lieutenant.

A searing pain invades my chest. What the hell…?

I look down, puzzled to see a bolt protruding from my chest. Death comes for me; I can feel my life seeping out.

Born of a fury even I did not know I was capable of, I threw my sword with all my strength. It struck the lieutenant's chest and he sank to his knees. He would kill no more.

Yet it was not enough. I crawled to him, ignoring the pain and cold and numbness that creep along my spine. Pulling him by the neck of his armor, I shove my remaining sword through his neck using the last of my strength.

Angry tears course down my cheeks as I close my eyes. I am tired now, so tired. Unable to keep myself up, I slump to the ground and rest my head on my shoulder plate.

For a moment, my mind wanders…

_Life planned out before my birth, nothing could I say  
had no chance to see myself, molded day by day_

I am a child again. My father works by the fire. My mother and little sister are across the creek, seeking herbs and wood for the evening meal. I sit next to my father in companionable silence. Unable to bear it a moment longer, I turn to ask him a question that has been plaguing me all day.

"Father, Trias says that there is word from nearby clans that the Romans will be coming soon. Have you heard?"

My father looks at me, and after a moment nods solemnly. "I fear they will be here soon. Far too soon," he says quietly.

"How long must this go on?" I ask, fighting back the urge to cry. I am Sarmatian, and the son of a great warrior. I cannot show such weakness.

My father shakes his head sadly, unable to answer.

"Trias is able to remain. He is able to choose his own course," I say bitterly. "Is it so wrong for me to want that?"

"Of course not, my son," my father says. "Lancelot, if I could return to service in your stead, I would."

I look at him, amazed at this admission.

"To be a knight of Rome is…" he sighs, searching. "It will change you. You will harden yourself so that nothing affects you. You become cold to everything around you, except your brothers-in-arms. It is a way of coping. I do not wish to see you lose your spirit, son."

"You are not that way," I point out.

"I was for a great time after I was released. So many of my friends, men with whom I had grown as close as brothers, lay buried while I lived. After a while the pain lessens, but that fact stays with you. And so you live for them."

I nod as I listen, eager for him to continue, but a look across the stream shows my mother returning and I know he will not discuss my leaving in front of her.

I hear her crying in the night, and it tears me apart.

_Soldier boy, made of clay  
now an empty shell  
twenty one, only son   
but he served us well  
Bred to kill, not to care  
just do as we say_

My memories dissolve and shift, and I am now a young man, fully grown. As my father predicted, I distance myself from anyone outside my ranks. The men are my family, and they are all that matter.

The Romans are arrogant and priggish, assuming we are their servants and not their soldiers.

The training is brutal, but our commander is a good man. Arthur Castos. He has labeled me as first knight and he has become my friend as well.

One of the younger lads is in the sparring ring. At 15, Galahad has defiance for the Romans that matches the older men. He fights with determination against an opponent that is bigger and stronger than he is.

I sit and watch. After a while, Galahad tires and the Roman he is sparring with goes for the final blow. The boy sees this and shifts, making a killing strike on his opponent. He turns to where a group of us stand, a proud grin splitting his young face amidst the dirt and blood.

The soldier behind him attacks, knocking him to the ground. The boy grapples for a moment before covering himself with his arms. I look around for someone with authority over the Roman, but no one is around. As Sarmatians, we are unable to act against centurions.

The grim faces of the others tell me that they all want to do something. I start forward, unable to bear it. Dagonet grabs my arm, but I jerk from his grasp and vault over the fence. I pull the soldier from Galahad and push him back, helping the lad to his feet.

"You," the soldier says grabbing me by the hair. He drags me away from the arena to the middle of the village square. My hands are tied and raised above my head and my tunic is ripped down the back. I clench my jaw and await my fate, hating these men more than I've ever hated anyone and refusing to utter a cry of pain.

After the fifth blow with a cane, a voice radiates through the gathered crowd.

Arthur. He takes the cane from the soldier and snaps it over his leg, raising the man's chin with the broken pieces.

"You will not touch my men again, is that understood?" he growls. He looks at the others. "These men are mine to command. If anyone mistreats them in any way, God as my witness, you will be made to pay for it."

Gawain appears on my left and Bors on my right.

"Easy brother," Gawain says quietly. "We've got you."

"You should have let them kill me," I whisper.

"Nonsense, boy," Bors says. "We got in this hell together; we'll get each other out. They can make us do as they tell us, but I'll be damned if we die for them. No, those of us who fall, fall for each other. Got me?"

I nod and let the darkness take me.

_Finished here, greeting Death  
he's yours to take away_

Around me, the battle rages. I am cold and weary. I cannot think, cannot feel. No more memories. No one to say goodbye to. Everyone is gone. I am alone.

So alone…

My eyes close, my breath shudders out.

Death is now my only friend.


End file.
